The mighty mountains standing wide and steep . . .
Wide wings soaring over, their great shadows cast deep.
Flying o'er the snow caps, gazing far down below,
As though the mountains could keep them from flying where they would go.
It was a wonder to watch as they circled o'er and o'er,
As though they weren't quite free from the mountains anymore.
Through the beauty of the mighty wings, sailing on and on . . .
At last broke free of the mountains and started home
Into the darkness of night the geese flew, from north to south, as the cold wind blew,
Turning slowly from the mountains where the pickings were few . . .
With their squawking and silent cry, rode the wind, hence claimed the sky.
Going south for a winter fair. A crystal lake to weather thereby.
Finding great and blissful cheer, raising their young in a nest that's near.
Taking to the sky, to steer hunters from their little goslings with fear . . .
Ready to fight for their own, as hunters came at the crack of dawn.
With guns, seeking their feathered fare, on the lakes the geese called home.
Freezing rain, sleet and cold now in the past, days of old,
But once again as the goslings would grow sassy and bold.
Back again to the mountains, they would in a V-formation, fly . . .
Taking once again their young, soaring, riding the wind and claiming the sky. |
